


Black Holes and Revelations

by cardiac_arrest



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Child Abuse, M/M, also im planning for mo/gards and willkap if anyones interested, basically this is a coming of age fic okay, i mean i guess theres angst, sort of whump!mitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23939305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest
Summary: Auston stays there, taking in the view. It’s borderline creepy, the way that he’s detailing Mitch’s every feature, but he can’t find it in himself to stop. The first time that he saw Mitch, he had only been focused on the peculiarity of the entire situation, the peculiarity of Mitch’s behaviour. This time, he can look.He can see the elegant lines of Mitch’s limbs, all lithe arms and legs. Mitch hasn’t built too much muscle yet, but Auston can see the beginnings of corded muscle on Mitch’s back. Auston has been calling Mitch a boy, but he really isn’t. Or, he won’t be, in the near future. It’s not like Auston’s would be much older if he converted his age to human years. He’s just as naive as Mitch, just as lost. But maybe they can help each other—just maybe.---Or, high school au where Mitch questions his future a little and Auston isn't really human.
Relationships: Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	1. Black Holes

**Author's Note:**

> okay so ive had this in my mind for a long, long while. hoping it turns out to be a longer chaptered fic, but i havent started on the other chapters so fingers crossed (dw i did finish the outline lmao). this fic is going to be a longer, more fleshed out take on my previous drabble [Bad Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18938551). 
> 
> so few orders of business: there are def trigger warnings here. mostly child abuse. its very prominent from the beginning of the fic (aka chap 1) so please be mindful of that. i have used mitchs actual parent, but i am in no way saying that this is what they are like in real life. this is completely fictional, i am taking artistic license. everything about this is fictional.
> 
> that being said, i hope you guys enjoy reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in end notes! I also forgot about Mitch's brother when writing so he's an only child now.

_ “It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.” _

_ ― Joseph Conrad _

*

It began as a nugget of doubt during his draft year, at the beginning of the school year. The feeling plants itself in his gut, like a parasite, feeding off of the insults and unease that’s thrown its way. It grows, and grows, and grows until it’s no smaller than a mountain. It’s no longer a single worm infiltrating his body, wearing down his resolve, but a horde, a  _ clat _ of them—all writhing around and sucking him dry and weak. 

When the doubt grows into something unmanageable, into fear and distrust—distrust in himself—, it’s harder to ignore. 

The infestation brings about ruin. He  _ is _ truly weak, he realizes; it shows on the rink when he can’t score a goal or get an assist or withstand a hit or  _ throw _ a hit. It shows when he fails. 

It feels like he’s drifting towards a black hole in space, with every passing minute, every passing second leading him closer and closer to his demise. There’s no time, not when the draft grows closer and closer. 

In a few months, the blackhole is right in front of him; the darkness that it brings chokes him. He’s run out of time. It’s going to consume him—he will no longer exist, only thrown into the void of expectations and unhappiness and disappointment. 

The draft looms. His dad pushes. And Mitch breaks. The parasites are a part of him now. They’re intrinsically  _ Mitch _ as much as the blood cells in his veins or the neurons in his brain are. 

*

There’s snow on the ground when Mitch brings himself to confess to his parents, mainly his dad. The weather has turned from before, from when he first found himself thinking about it. It’s cold out now; the sky greys with clouds more often than not, the winds howl rather than laugh, the darkness stretches instead of the light. The feeling of winter settles itself deep into Mitch’s heart like a heavy stone sinking to the bottom of the ocean, like the truth buried far behind his mask. Mitch doesn’t think he can keep it inside any longer, not when it’s so far down it threatens to explode from his body in a slew of sharp, glass-edged words. 

Sometimes, Mitch wonders if he should let the words explode into the surrounding world, a brilliant sort of weaponry that would truly expose the concern of his close-ones, or the lack thereof. He doesn’t dwell on the thought—thinking too deeply on that subject only brings him closer to tears, and he  _ doesn’t _ need tears when he’s speaking to his dad. It wouldn’t be fair to his family either. He doesn’t want to force an ultimatum on anyone; he knows the pain that comes with picking between two unwanted choices, two choices that both burn. 

So, there. That’s why he decides to tell his dad. 

He decides to tell his dad on a school night, after he’s already submitted his course selections for the next school year and the day before hockey practice. He makes sure it’s a day that his mom doesn’t have a shift. Maybe it’ll help with the backlash. In the back of his mind, he knows nothing will mitigate the damage wreaked by the breadth of his dad’s anger. 

Mitch takes a shuddering breath in his little room. A shiver simultaneously tingles down his spine. It’s okay, he can take it. He  _ will _ take it. 

He walks down the stairs, the old wood creaking ominously under his feet. The stairs have always made noises—his house is old—but it feels different this time.

_ Take a risk. _

He holds the railings on his way down. The metal skeleton is covered by a cushy plastic coating; it’s cool to the touch.

_ It’s your time. _

He feels the fuzzy carpet underneath his feet. The colour of the carpet is ugly, stained and marred by old age. 

_ Make  _ your _ choice. _

“Dad?” Mitch calls out. He winces slightly at the hesitancy in his voice.

His dad grunts from his half-slumped position on the couch. There’s a bottle of beer in front of him, next to the remote. He’s watching hockey highlights on the TV. 

“Could I… talk to you and mom?” 

His dad raises an eyebrow, his gaze switching from the screen to Mitch standing in the doorway. Mitch feels his heart pulsate—he can feel his blood in his veins, he can feel the rush of heat throughout his body. 

“Bonnie!” his dad yells. “Get down here!”

Mitch winces again, but he tries to keep it invisible.

His mom floats down the stairs, another set of creaks, and settles next to him. She’s shorter than him. 

“Mitch? What’s wrong?” she asks. She tilts her head in confusion. It’s adorable. A bloom of warmth settles in Mitch’s chest. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Mitch deflects and crosses his arms.

His mom is silent for a second, her lips thin. “Well, go in, then. We need to sit down to have a proper conversation, yes?”

Mitch nods silently. His teeth pull at the skin on his lips. He moves towards the smaller couch, away from his father. His mom is much quicker than him at picking a spot, settling down beside his father with a swat to his father’s legs—an unspoken message for him to move. 

Mitch looks down at his bare feet and stretches a toe. The only sound in the room comes from the commentators in the TV. They pull his focus. 

The silence is suffocating. 

“Well, get on with it!” his dad scoffs. Mitch’s hands tighten. “What’s going on?”

His mom glares at his dad and turns to Mitch with a gentle smile. “Come on, Mitch. What’d you want to tell us?”

He takes a deep breath, takes a moment, and lets go. “I don’t want to be in the draft this year.”

There’s a sharp, harsh clatter as his father slams down the beer bottle down onto the coffee table. It’s a dissonant, chaotic noise of glass scraping on glass. Mitch’s heart stutters along in his chest. Sweat seeps into the cloth underneath his armpits. 

Another silence follows, one that raises the hair on Mitch’s arms and curdles his blood with fear. Mitch prays to himself, a mantra on repeat.  _ Please let me have this. Please let me have this. Please let me— _

“What did you fucking say?” his father says. His voice is unnervingly level, a suspicious tremor underlying his tone. 

“Paul,” his mom warns. She stiffens.

It’s like the shock of the statement has worn off and dissipated, leaving the bare bones of Mitch’s poorly-veiled request for his parents to judge and approve. If it were anything but hockey, Mitch’s request wouldn’t hold danger. It wouldn’t be pushed away. But, this time, it’s hockey, and he never had much choice in hockey.

“No, I wanna hear what he said again, ‘cause I don’t think I  _ heard _ him right,” his father sneers. His stance is aggressive. “I thought I heard him say he doesn’t want to be in the draft this year.” His father throws an incredulous, poisonous look at him before switching his gaze to his mom. “Did you hear that? I think my hearing’s going, or I’m suddenly crazy. ‘Cause no son of mine would ever think about quitting hockey.” 

“I’m not talking about quitting hockey!” Mitch interjects, thoughts of subservience far from the forefront of his mind. His voice quivers. “I’m just—I’m just thinking about not doing the draft this year.”

“Oh yeah?” His father smiles monstrously. “Not making an OHL team at sixteen is the same as quitting hockey. You don’t want to fucking drop out and quit like an idiot, yeah?”

Mitch bites his lip. 

“Paul!” his mother barks, shoving him with a harsh glare. Mitch doesn’t think she’s ever heard him talk like this. “Stop swearing at Mitch!” The command is meant to be a stage whisper, but it reaches farther than its intended audience as it is wont to do in a space as small as their living room. She briefly glances at Mitch, reassuringly, before turning her attention to his father. “If Mitch doesn’t want to be in the draft this year, then he doesn’t have to. It’s his choice.”

His father grits his teeth. “He doesn’t have a choice, not when it comes to hockey.”

His mom looks at his father for a moment, disbelieving, “what have you been teaching him? What have you been forcing him to do?”

“Nothing he didn’t want to do.” The reply is cold like steel, dropping Mitch’s body temperature by several degrees until he’s dripping cold sweat. 

“You don’t know that!” his mom yells in exasperation. “He doesn’t want to be in the stupid draft; he doesn’t want to do that!” 

“He  _ needs _ to do it. He doesn’t know how to do anything else right.”

Mitch tries not to flinch at that. 

“Then why does he have his courses loaded with maths and sciences? Why did he plan grade twelve courses in grade eleven? Why is he on the honour roll every, freaking, year?” 

His father snorts, “that’s nothing. That’s the bare minimum. He’d be defective if he didn’t do that shit.” 

His mother is silent. She closes her eyes. She speaks, calm and forceful. “Mitch is not going through the draft this year. He’s not going through with it next year, either. You know what? I’m not letting him play rep next year. He’s going into grade eleven; he needs more time to focus on school.” She stares his father in the eyes. “And that’s  _ final.” _

*

By the end of the school year, Mitch’s hockey schedule for the next school year is drafted out completely. 

His somewhat, read  _ really, _ lacklustre rep season led to a disappointing end where the team finished in the bottom half of the rankings. Even his personal stats weren’t as advanced as he would’ve liked, dropping in points per game compared to last season. 

It isn’t a surprise that his dad tried to cram as much hockey as he could into the year before Mitch would be back on the ballot for the draft. 

During the summer, he would have to go to Hockey Camp with private lessons once a week. During the school year, he would play for the school team while going to lessons twice a week. 

It didn’t matter that Mitch’s mom barred him from playing rep hockey, Paul Marner wasn’t going to let his good-for-nothing son waste the year away without touching a puck or developing his skills. No rep hockey meant  _ more _ hockey, more skills development, more… torture. 

And—and that’s  _ good. _ The added hockey is good. 

It’s not like Mitch hates hockey or anything. He loves the sport. He loves the feeling of the cool air of the rink punching him in the face as soon as he enters, he loves the smell of the ice, he loves the way he can glide on the ice, he loves the weight of his stick in his hands, he loves the exhilaration blooming in his chest after he sets up a goal. 

He loves hockey, he does. He might love the tight-knit connection that develops between teammates more, though. It feels good to be part of something—to contribute to something and  _ help. _ It doesn’t matter—it doesn’t, it doesn’t, it  _ doesn’t _ —that his chest feels tight when his teammates push him to the side or talk behind his back. He can deal with it, as long as he’s part of their community. 

Mitch doesn’t mind playing hockey. He shouldn’t mind playing hockey, not when the sport costs so much money, not when both his parents extrude such an effort in allowing him to have the luxury of playing such a sport. 

Mitch doesn’t mind having a dream of making it to the NHL. What other dreams would he have? It sounds so stupid to lament having the privilege of dreaming to make it big, more so when his parents support him. Although, he can’t remember why his dream has always been hockey-related. He can’t understand why his dream is hockey related if the thought of playing professionally injects ice water into his veins. 

He’s starting to have these conversations with himself more often now; he lists out the pros and cons of playing in the NHL, of trying to make it to the NHL. Even though he knows the pros would far outweigh the cons, a part of him doesn’t care. 

A part of him is happy he managed to elude the OHL draft and rep hockey, because that meant he would delay his process of making it big. A part of him is happy that he won’t be thrust into the limelight just yet. A part of him is happy his life doesn’t revolve  _ entirely _ around hockey just yet. 

*

One day, during the summer, Mitch’s dad calls him down into the dining room under the guise of having a meal. It’s one of the evenings that his mom is on shift, so Mitch should’ve been able to feel the tension as soon as he walked into the room. 

There’s a big bowl of mac and cheese in the middle of the table, store-bought. There’s another two-litre bottle of pop sitting innocently to the right of the food. There isn’t a single piece of any type of vegetable to be seen. 

Mitch pauses on the stairs, the hand scratching his scalp freezing in the middle of its action. This whole situation feels wrong to him. 

“Mitch,” his dad calls as he sits at the end of the table, a leg propped up on his other one. There’s a beer in his hand. “Get over here. Eat your dinner.”

The waning sunlight filters through the window beside the dinner table, throwing shadows across the stairs. Mitch blinks, and suddenly the room is devoid of any golden hues. 

He settles in his chair, uncomfortable. The wooden legs scrape against the tiled floor as he pulls in closer to the table. He sits there for a moment, unmoving. 

“Eat, Mitch,” his dad smiles, seemingly forced. It seems like it’s more of a command. 

Mitch nods and grabs the ladle sticking out of the bowl and scoops out a generous portion onto his plate. He opens the pop and grabs a class. 

“So, Mitch.” His dad looks down at his own plate. The look on his face when he looks back up is scary. “Your mom said you couldn’t play rep this year.”

Mitch sneaks a glance and nods again. He responds hesitantly, “She did.”

His dad gives him a look. Mitch scrunches his eyebrows. 

“What?” Mitch says in confusion.

His dad sighs harshly and shakes his head. “God, you really are dense. What I’m trying to say is that just because your mom said you couldn’t play rep, doesn’t mean you can’t actually play rep.”

“Oh.” The fork in his hand stills. He drags it along the plate lightly, trying to make the least amount of noise as possible. 

“Don’t you want to play rep, Mitch?” his dad leers. “If you told your mom you wanted to play rep, we could get you on a team right away.”

“But… tryouts are over, aren’t they? That’s impossible.”

His dad laughs, like a tyrant. “The team will make an exception for you.”

“Why would they make an exception for me?”

His dad clenches the fork in his hand. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Mitch bites his lip. He’d thought that he wasn’t so good at hockey that teams would be willing to let him play without trying out. 

“I thought I wasn’t good at hockey.”

“You aren’t,” his father snorts, “but I pulled some strings. God knows you would need it to make the NHL.”

Mitch can’t do anything but nod and agree. The flame in his heart dies just a little. 

“So, what do you think? Tell your mom you want to play rep, yeah?” His father downs half the bottle of beer in one swig, letting out a belch afterwards.

Belatedly, Mitch feels cool sweat pool around his armpits. 

His father asked him a question—yet he gave him no choice. The only correct answer is to say “Yes” and tell his mom. Mitch isn’t allowed to think of the other option, the one that would cause the delay in the necessary advancement of his hockey career. 

This is the first time that Mitch is bewildered and confused. 

Didn’t his father ask him a question about his own opinion? Didn’t he offer the choice up to Mitch, so he could choose what he wanted?

This is the first time that Mitch wants to carve out his own choice. 

Mitch knows that defiance would only lead to undesirable, unpleasant consequences. He could end up disappointing his father—no, he’ll definitely disappoint his father. In fact, he’ll  _ anger _ him. And that would be worse.

The correct choice is compliance. 

The safe choice is compliance. 

But the pleasant choice… the pleasant choice is not compliance. 

The fork makes a clatter when Mitch lets go of it; it clinks against his porcelain bowl of mac and cheese. 

He doesn’t need to be compliant, right? Mitch wants to have his own choice. He wants to say “No” and be rid of rep hockey for the year. It doesn’t make any sense—he loves rep hockey—but he wants his choice. He doesn’t know why his choice doesn’t coincide with what his father wants, but he wants this. He desires this choice like the way some people desire money or fame or happiness or love. He  _ needs _ this choice.

His father continues eating, carefree, a smug look upon his face. His father thinks Mitch has made the non-choice of obedience, has acquiesced to the unthinking action of heeding to every command that has been forced upon him. 

He’s wrong. Mitch will prove him wrong. 

“No,” Mitch says quietly, but firmly. “I’m not telling mom I want to play rep.”

Another heavy silence returns, reminiscent of that first night of unexpected disobedience. His father’s face turns red, indicating his exponentially rising level of fury. Mitch’s heart beats faster in fear. 

“I don’t think I heard you right, Mitchy,” his father grits out. The nickname sounds haunting in his voice. “You want to play rep, right?”

The look on his father’s face is a challenge. It dares Mitch to defy him, taunting him as if he knows that Mitch would be too pussy to ever grow a pair of balls and make his own choices. 

“I don’t,” Mitch shakes his head. “I don’t want to play rep.”

“I don’t think you understand, Mitch. You’re playing rep fucking hockey. You don’t have a choice.” 

Mitch looks up sharply, the flames behind his eyes roaring in intensity at the statement. He has a fucking choice. 

“Mom said I wasn’t going to play rep hockey this year. I’m not going to play rep hockey this year. I don’t  _ want _ to.”

“Your mom doesn’t know what’s good for you!” his dad yells, a hand slamming down on the table, making Mitch flinch. 

“It’s not like you know either!”

There’s a familiar sting that starts in his nose, running up to the back of his eyes. Fuck, it’s not the time for tears. 

“Don’t you dare fucking talk back!” his father yells louder. His hand is raised. Mitch cowers back more, trying to move his chair back without drawing attention to the action. “You’re playing rep hockey and that’s final!” 

The anger in Mitch’s own body bubbles up uncontrollably at the phrase. He can’t help the excessive amount of resentment and hatred and spite that wells up, exploding past the barrier he built for himself and rushing through his veins in an unruly, heated mess. He’s so mad, he’s  _ so _ mad. 

“I’m not playing rep hockey! It’s  _ my _ choice and I’m not playing!”

The chair scrapes loudly as Mitch abandons the pretense of subtlety and tries to flee to his room. The tears overflow their resting basin and drip down his cheek, blurring his vision. He wants to sniffle, but it would be too loud, so he breathes through his mouth instead.

His heart pounds harder in fear as Mitch hears the scrape of a second chair on the tiled floor. 

“Fucking come back here, Mitch!” his father growls. 

Mitch wills his legs to move faster. He wipes at his face with a sleeve. 

“I said come back here!”

There’s the sound of something flying through the air before Mitch hears the cacophonous noise of porcelain shattering against the wall behind him. Mitch makes a wounded noise as he cowers inwards, trying to protect himself from bodily harm. He lets out a sob accidentally and looks backwards. 

There’s a bowl-shaped blob of mac and cheese stuck to the wall just centimetres away from his place on the stairs. There are shards of porcelain too, with larger pieces littering the stairs. His father stares on angrily, chest heaving, nostrils flared, and fists clenched. 

Mitch can’t help it; he’s unable to reel in his horrified face. He scampers up the remaining stairs to reach his room and slams the door behind him in a smooth, enraged swing before locking it. He’s glad he took the key that unlocked his door. 

*

It’s fully dark outside when Mitch locks himself in his room. He hasn’t closed his blinds yet, so the pale moonlight streams in from the window and provides just a bit of light. He hasn’t turned the lights on yet, and he doesn’t think he will. 

There are still tears tracking down his face. They flow freely like the overabundant emotions knocking around in his chest. Mitch feels hot, feverish, but cold at the same time. His legs are weak, unable to support his full weight, so he collapses down onto his ass and leans his back against the door. 

Mitch hears wood creak ominously, and he knows it’s his father coming up the stairs. It sounds like his footsteps. His rebellious streak fades into fear—gut-wrenching, logic-breaking, piteous fear—and he no longer feels safe. He tenses when the footsteps reach his door, curling up into a little ball. It’s not like curling up into a ball would help him in any way, since he’s on the other side of a door, but he can’t help it. It always feels like his father can hurt him somehow, even when he’s physically incapable of doing so.

The footsteps stop outside his door. Mitch can feel his father’s looming presence like a noose on his neck. It’s pin-drop silent for a few seconds. Mitch tries to stay quiet. He hides the sobs he makes by biting into his arm, tasting flesh as he does so. His chest heaves heavily from his breaths. 

Nothing happens for a while. The air is still. Nature is quiet. Time disappears. The only movement Mitch can sense is the ones he makes himself, his body still shaking and tears still leaking.

It’s a false sense of security, Mitch realizes belatedly as soon as his father pounds on the door.

The harsh bursts of noise are like explosions, heavy knuckles rapping on the hardwood of Mitch’s door. There’s a bang, and then another, and another, until his father stops. The doorknob is tested a few times, each twist of the metal adding another extra beat to the rhythm of Mitch’s heart. The fear is all-encompassing now; Mitch isn’t sure where his own thoughts begin and where the fear stops. 

“Open the door, Mitch,” his father says. His voice is more composed, less loud. But this composed facade is more terrifying than his unbound anger. 

Mitch doesn’t say anything. Instead, he bites down harder on his arm and ignores his blocked nose again. 

“C’mon Mitch. You didn’t finish your dinner.” 

The voice is softer this time, but Mitch can hear the poison underneath the pillowy tone, acrid and sharp like a knife’s edge. Mitch’s room seems darker, like the moon has been obliterated, light sucked away into a black hole. 

A pause. 

“Goddammit, Mitch! Be like that, then! Fuck! Don’t play rep hockey and be a disappointment like you always are! You’re a nightmare of a fucking kid!” There’s one last thunderous blow to his door before Mitch hears the footsteps retreat. 

He spits his arm out with a deep inhale through his mouth, breathing in much-needed oxygen. The crying doesn’t stop. 

It won’t stop. 

It won’t stop because the fear hasn’t. 

Mitch flinches one last time when the front door slams shut, the walls of the house trembling and shaking from the force of the impact.

Finally, he’s alone. He dives for his bed, burrowing his head underneath the covers. He hates the darkness, hates being smothered under the weight of his blankets, but he wants to be afraid of something else. 

The entire evening leaves him unsettled and restless. 

He’s sad and angry and scared and  _ searching _ for something. 

The desire for freedom shoots through his veins suddenly, growing in tandem with the flame of rebellion deep inside his heart. He wants to do something. He  _ needs _ to do something. 

He needs to be  _ free, _ to make a choice for himself, to go against his father’s rules. 

The fear still lingers from the outcome of disobeying his father, but Mitch doesn’t care as much anymore. If Mitch were to go against his father and get got, the consequences wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter.

Maybe it’s because his father… maybe. 

There’s not much Mitch can do without getting fucked up by his father if he gets caught. The only thing he can do is to sneak out of the house later that night. 

*

When Mitch leaves the house, stepping over the door jamb cautiously, it’s after one in the morning. His body weighs him down, his eyelids drooping in an effort to induce sleep for the night. Mitch is tired, physically tired, but there’s a restlessness that dances in his bones. 

A restlessness that calls for action. 

The air is humid, more than it was during the day, but cold as well, colder than it was during the day. The moonlight breaks through the wispy clouds, mirroring a spotlight shining down upon Mitch, as if it was marking out a path for him to follow—a path to an unknown destination. It almost makes Mitch turn tail; the light is too much like a beacon unveiling his insubordination to the rest of the neighbourhood, and his father. 

But the hesitancy fades as quickly as it came, seeping back into his skin in the blink of an eye, the flap of a butterfly’s wings. Mitch can’t stop now. He needs to do this for himself. 

In the openness of the dark, Mitch is armed with nothing more than a sweater over his clothes. He doesn’t know where he’s going to go. He’s still standing outside his house, not a single step farther than his front door. Despite this, despite his lack of progress in physical distance, he feels jubilation already. Every pump of his heart pushes another dose of adrenaline to his cells, a positive feedback loop urging him to take the near-future into his own hands and make something incredible happen. 

There isn’t a single thought in his mind that helps him decide on what to do next, so he follows the moonlight and takes a step forward. 

The first step forward is awkward—a step so small it could barely be categorized as a movement. But it’s enough to unleash the barriers guarding Mitch’s body, barriers that Mitch didn’t know he had. 

Mitch runs. He runs as quickly as he can, as light as he can, and for no reason at all. The wind brushes his face and pushes his hair back as he streaks down his street and into the opening of a trail. He hears the noise of an owl as he reaches the thicket of trees that forms the forest behind his house. Fallen leaves and miscellaneous plant life crumble and crack underneath his shoes as he totters along the unkept makeshift path on the forest floor. He runs deeper and deeper into the heart of nature, down the gentle yet slippery slopes of the small ravine, passing large towers of oak and birch and maple.

He runs until the elation embodies him whole. 

He runs until he almost forgets the anger, sorrow, defiance still saturating his mind. Almost, because he can’t stop. 

He runs until he reaches the brook at the bottom of the ravine.

Mitch’s knees are scraped up, tiny cuts littering his ankles and calves, and there’s dirt in his shoes. But somehow, he doesn’t care, he can’t  _ find _ it in him to care. 

He stops running. Instead, he stops to a halt at the banks of the small stream. He breathes the summer air into his lungs, savouring the smell of wildflowers, damp leaves, and the coolness of the night. Mitch walks closer to the edge of the water and trips a few times when his toes catch on rocks embedded in the dirt, hidden from sight with the aid of the darkness.

With each step forward, Mitch feels the elation of the run fade, before it disappears in a snap. The unwanted emotions take its place, tendrils of despair and fear curling around the nooks and crannies of his inner body, tightening around his organs. 

The sharp stab of numbness that comes with worry pushes Mitch’s focus. He needs to distract himself before he falls into the cycle once again. 

He takes a closer, more detailed look at the stream, and a sudden caprice washes over him. The water looks black in the darkness. Its current appears to be fast and powerful, faster than it probably is, from the white bubbles and foam that glisten under the light of the moon. Mitch feels a sudden urge to throw himself into the water. He wants to feel the strength of the current pushing him down the stream, the frigid temperature of the water as it wraps around his limbs. He wants to know how deep it is, how the riverbed feels. Mitch wants to know if he’d survive. 

He probably would. 

He would survive; the water doesn’t look deep, the current won’t pull him under or crush him against any boulders, and he won’t freeze to death. Even if he would survive, Mitch—

Mitch knows he will get hurt if he falls to his whim. 

The water isn’t deep, but there are rocks littering the riverbed, rocks that could cut his legs worse than the twigs on the ground. Mitch doesn’t want to be caught and punished by his father, so it’s better to avoid an injury for which Mitch would have an acceptable justification. 

So, instead, Mitch sits down on the side-swept, straw-like reeds that cover the riverbank, and sticks his bare legs in the water. He hikes the bottom of his shorts up just a bit, just to avoid soiling them. 

The water is cool, as expected, but it’s a refreshing sort of cool. The type of cool that reminds Mitch of walking into an arena and getting hit in the face by the cool air. The type of cool that he feels when he gulps down a cool can of pop, condensation still sweating down the sides of the metal container. 

The scent of pine flows through the air and tickles the inside of Mitch’s nose. It’s a scent that complements the smell of the wind and nature. 

Mitch closes his eyes and lets out a breath. 

He hears the rustle of leaves and a snap of a twig. His eyes pop open at the sound. He quickly turns his head to his left, where he heard the sound, and gazes. 

Stars shine above his head and crickets chirp around him. 

Another twig snaps. 

A creature heads towards him.

Mitch smiles, and closes his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
Verbal child abuse -- Mitch's dad puts him down many times (I.e. Saying he's worthless), swears at Mitch, and tries to manipulate/force him into doing things. There's an instance where he throws a breakable object at Mitch but it doesn't actually hit him. No intense physical abuse, technically.


	2. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auston takes a moment. “Why are you here, Mitch?”
> 
> “I don’t know.” Mitch curls in on himself.
> 
> “Why?” Auston repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh sorry about updating after a very long time, but i guess this is how the pacing will be. but hey! this time i actually started on the next chapter already!

The boy sitting by the stream is strange. He wears a sweater as an outer layer to combat the colder temperature of the night, yet he willingly submerges his legs into cool water. To Auston, it seems idiotic and meaningless. But, then again, he isn’t human and he doesn’t feel things the same way. Humans have always been stupid and self-destructive, one person’s greed overpowering the virtues of the rest of the population and causing annihilation for everyone. And it would keep on spreading. 

Auston shouldn’t be surprised at these scenes anymore. He should be used to the stupidity of humans, including the younger ones— _ especially _ the younger ones. He’s seen enough teenagers parade around his territory during the middle of the night, too inebriated to distinguish between solid ground and a rock. Too inebriated to realize they were going to fall off a cliff. 

The memories make Auston laugh. They’re so  _ sad _ they’re funny. 

But this boy, this human boy, is different. His stupidity isn’t necessarily stupidity, and Auston doesn’t know the motivations behind his actions. 

Why would he wander around Auston’s territory in the dead of night all by himself? What would he gain by fucking around in the night without any of his friends? The boy can’t  _ do _ anything. It isn’t fun to make bad decisions alone; there always has to be a catalyst, teenage recklessness at the heart of it. There is no value to the boy being here. 

It’s why Auston finds the whole situation so bizarre. 

Auston sneaks closer, silent in the quiet of the night, and watches as the boy tips his head high towards the sky. The boy inhales deeply, as if he was savouring the scents and nuances of his surroundings. Auston rustles the foliage surrounding him purposely, snapping a twig under his foot with a smirk on his lips. The boy turns his head in his direction. Surprisingly, he ignores the presence of a foreign creature and chooses to close his eyes instead. 

It’s not a smart move to shut off a sense —especially vision, as revered as it is—when something more powerful moves towards you. Yet, this boy has done it. 

Auston knew the boy was strange, but he didn’t know he would be like  _ this. _ His choices intrigue Auston more than it should, turning the cogs in Auston’s mind for the first time in a very long time. Auston has never been surprised by a human before. He has never thought well of them. He has never wanted to know one better—until now. 

As Auston inches closer to the boy, he senses more than he thought he would. There’s a tangible wave of emotions surrounding him like a shield or, rather, some type of repellant. Auston can feel the explosive delirium that comes with restlessness, the acrid burn of betrayal and anger, the slow bubble of despair. It’s a tough range of emotions to feel, and it only makes Auston more curious. 

“What’s a boy like you doing here late at night?” Auston says lowly, bending down so his voice echoes beside the boy’s ear. 

The boy freezes, his legs still in the cool water. Auston watches his hands clench at the scraggly plants rooted in the soil. He almost winces in sympathy of the plants. 

The boy does not answer, but his eyes fly open. The moonlight reflects in his irises and brings out a bright glow in them, accentuating their blue-grey colour in a supernatural manner. He looks fascinating, ethereal, the juxtaposition of the darkness of the night and gentle glow of the stars bringing an other-worldliness in his features. He looks like a dream. 

Auston hums in response to the boy’s silence. He snorts, “Cat got your tongue? Unless, you don’t have one.”

The boy almost rolls his eyes, but he catches himself in time. He stays irritatingly silent. Auston has never had much patience. 

“Listen,  _ boy,” _ Auston growls, “this ain’t a game. There’s no reason for you to be here.”

And,  _ oh, _ that’s a response.

The boy turns to Auston’s direction, all fiery eyes and contracted muscles, with purpose. It’s defiance at the core that flavours the air, a taste of tangy electricity. 

“I don’t need a reason to be here,” the boy says, his first words directed at a creature that he could perceive to be a monster. He’s unafraid, unthreatened by Auston’s presence. It makes Auston shake in excitement. 

Auston raises an eyebrow. “This is my territory, boy. You can’t be here.”

“Don’t call me boy! I have a name.” 

“Haven’t your parents taught you the power of names?”

The boy scoffs. “As if you’d have power over me.”

The statement is bewildering. “Do you know what I am?”

The boy lets go of the plants in his hands, patting them instead, as if to soothe them. “I know enough.”

The answer is enough to make Auston laugh, deep rumbles that rise from deep in his chest. He hasn’t truly laughed in a very long time. The boy watches on with a sliver of surprise in his eyes. 

“You  _ think _ you know enough, but you don’t know anything,” Auston says, faux-nonchalance in his tone. 

“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know anything,” the boy quips back, an undercurrent of anger lining his voice. 

Auston stares on with half-lidded eyes at the human in front of him. He’s young, yet he’s different. “So tell me.”

“What?”

“So tell me what I don’t know.”

The boy turns his head, suddenly shy as he averts Auston’s gaze. This time, his hands grip at his legs instead of the ground. Auston’s chest swells with a hollowing sort of warmth. He isn’t sure what the warmth means; he’s never felt it in the uncountable years of his existence. 

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Why not, boy?”

“Stop calling me a boy! I’m not that young; I’m not a child.”

Auston smirks. “I know you’re not.”

“Then don’t pretend I am!”

Auston’s willing to indulge him. “Then what’s your name?”

The boy huffs out a sigh, all indignant and pouty. It’s an interesting look for someone as feisty as he is. “It’s Mitch.”

“Mitch,” Auston tests. The syllable is light on his tongue, tasting of a change he isn’t aware of. “Call me Auston.”

Mitch stares at him. 

“What?”

“You don’t look like an Auston.”

Auston is never letting go of this human. He quips back with an easy half-smile, “You don’t look like a Mitch.” He’s lying, because Mitch does look like a Mitch. 

“God, you’re annoying,” the boy—Mitch, right, Mitch—sighs out. It’s less of an insult and more of a statement. There’s nothing mean in his tone. 

“Then I’m doing my job correctly.”

“That’s such a lie,” Mitch says. He isn’t paying attention to Auston anymore. Instead, he fishes through the pebbles lying on the riverbank. 

There’s a lull in the conversation as Auston decides on what to say. He isn’t going to play around anymore. It doesn’t make any sense for Mitch to be here at the time that he is, and he’s avoided giving a reason for long enough. 

“Why are you here?”

Mitch scoffs and picks up a pebble. It has rather jagged edges. He looks at it, rolling it around with his fingers, and throws it far into the middle of the running creek. His shoulders slump and something breaks. 

“I don’t know,” Mitch whispers. His voice is empty and small. It reminds Auston of a fatally-injured animal curling in on themselves to preserve their last moments of life. 

Auston says nothing and sits down next to Mitch. He slips his longer legs into the water beside Mitch. The temperature doesn’t register as cold, but he can feel the rush of the current flowing around his limbs. 

“What happened tonight?” Auston pauses. “Or last night, I guess.”

Mitch freezes again. He bites his lip and worries at it until Auston’s sure it’s about to bleed. “I didn’t say anything happened.”

“I know, but I can tell something did,” Auston says. There’s no teasing tone in his voice anymore. 

Mitch’s eyes flit away from Auston’s vicinity. He neither confirms Auston’s statement nor denies it. 

Auston continues, “Why else would you be here alone this late?”

“Maybe I’m camping or something.”

Auston chuckles. “No one camps here, and you know that.”

A small smile cracks on Mitch’s face. Auston feels like he’s done something good.

“I’ll tell you what happened if you tell me what you are.”

“Okay,” Auston shrugs. 

Mitch’s face contorts into confusion. “Wait, that’s it? You’re just going to tell me what you are.”

“Yeah,” Auston drawls, “why not? It’s not like I care that much.”

“But aren’t there, like, rules to revealing stuff like that? Won’t you… I don’t know, get in trouble or something?” 

Auston snorts and throws a lazy look in Mitch’s direction. “I make my own rules.”

Mitch goes silent again, his face neutral. Auston raises an eyebrow. He’s unsure if he said anything, or done anything, to upset Mitch. He isn’t fully comprehensive of human culture, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to offend. Or intimidate. 

The moment passes and Mitch looks a little more like what Auston would infer his normal face to be. “So, what are you?”

“What am I?” Auston smirks. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

Mitch rolls his eyes, for real this time. “What a lie.”

Auston hums. “I don’t think you’ll believe me if I tell you the truth.”

“If you can’t trust me enough to tell the truth then I don’t think I’d want to tell you what happened.”

“Mitchy, that’s some tongue you’ve got there. Feisty, yeah?”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me feisty,” Mitch laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. It makes him look his age, yet he seems older at the same time. 

“First time for everything.” Auston shrugs. 

“It’s time for you to tell me.” Mitch raises an eyebrow.”

“Pushy,” Auston says with a sideways smile. “I’m a deity. Or a god, I guess, if you wanted to think of it that way.”

“You’re God?” Mitch stares pointedly. “You don’t seem like God at all.”

Auston laughs. “I never said I was  _ God. _ I said I was  _ a _ god. Kinda like the Greek ones, you know?”

“Huh,” Mitch says and holds his chin with a hand. He leans back until both hands are resting on the ground. He stares up at the sky. “A god. A god of what?”

“A god of water,” Auston hums in return, moving back until he’s flat on the ground, so he can look at Mitch.

“A god of water? Oh man, why are you  _ here? _ You could choose any other town, any city in the world. This place sucks; nothing ever happens here.”

“Exactly,” Auston smirks. “It’s peaceful enough.”

“Peaceful enough for a god of water. Wow.” Mitch grimaces. “There isn’t even that much water here.”

“One drop is all I need,” Auston shrugs. 

“Need for what?” Mitch laughs. He’s making fun of Auston. 

“You don’t need to know.” Auston brings his leg down on the water, splashing some onto Mitch. Mitch flinches at the unexpected cold. “Now, tell me what happened.”

The smile quickly slips away from Mitch’s face, a stark grimace replacing its place. His legs still from their place in the water. Mitch turns his face away from Auston, going silent as he avoids showing Auston his emotions. Auston lets Mitch stew in his silence for a while. There’s an urge to wipe the sadness off of Mitch’s face, something he’s never felt before. An urge that has never been directed towards a  _ human. _

A few minutes pass without a word spoken into the wind. It leaves Auston hesitant. Maybe he was wrong about this one, this boy. Maybe he should leave and never appear to Mitch again. 

His hesitancy loosens when the boy’s, Mitch’s, lips tremble and open. It’s clear that Mitch has trouble speaking what’s on his mind. 

“Mitch,” Auston says, softly yet firmly. It’s an urge in itself. 

“This is the first time that I’ve ‘sneaked’ out of the house,” Mitch mumbles. He stares at his toes. “I wasn’t going to come here; I didn’t know I was coming here until I got here.”

Auston stares, a silent gesture for Mitch to continue. 

“Do you know what hockey is?” Mitch asks. It seems somewhat off-topic but Auston nods anyway. He’s seen the sport; it’s played on ice, so of course he’d know it. “Okay, well, then do you know what the NHL is?”

“Not really,” Auston shakes his head. 

“It’s this league where all the best hockey players play, the professional hockey players. You can make a lot of money there, and it’s where my dad wants me to play in the future.”

“Okay,” Auston says, the word trailing into silence. The NHL seems to be a great goal to have, then. Yet, Mitch’s face and the waves of discomfort he gives off say otherwise. “What’s wrong with the NHL? What’s it got to do with you being here?”

“I just,” Mitch bites his lip. He whispers his next words. “I love hockey, but I can’t stand the thought of going to the NHL.”

“Then you can just find something else to do,” Auston says. He’s a bit confused. 

“I can’t! My father  _ wants _ me to do pro hockey. I can’t just  _ stop. _ Hockey’s the only thing I can do, even if I suck at it.”

“Why do you care about what your dad wants you to do?”

Mitch flinches. “Because I don’t have a choice.”

Auston takes a moment. “Why are you here, Mitch?”

“I don’t know.” Mitch curls in on himself.

“Why?” Auston repeats.

“I fought with my dad. I got scared.”

“Why are you here?”

Mitch grits his teeth.

“Tell me Mitch!” Auston’s voice borders on a yell, but he can tell that Mitch isn’t scared.

“I want my own choice! That’s why I’m here!” 

Auston nods approvingly. He lets it go for the day.

*

After a few weeks, Auston feels a familiar presence tiptoe into the northern edges of his territory in the late hours of the night. It’s Mitch. 

The realisation brings some sort of elation into his chest. It dances around in the chamber with a lightness that brings fear into his heart. He’s never been this excited and happy at the trespassing of a human in his territory at an ungodly time. Hah, ungodly. 

The fear overrides his desire to see Mitch once again. It overrides the desire to check up on him, to make sure that he’s still well and kicking—to make sure that he hasn’t given up on his choice. 

Instead of facing him head-on, Auston chooses to loiter on the edge of the clearing, a few dozen metres away from Mitch’s spot next to the stream. He’s in the water again, his legs submerged. The image brings some warmth to Auston’s form. 

Auston stays there, taking in the view. It’s borderline creepy, the way that he’s detailing Mitch’s every feature, but he can’t find it in himself to stop. The first time that he saw Mitch, he had only been focused on the peculiarity of the entire situation, the peculiarity of Mitch’s behaviour. This time, he can look. 

He can see the elegant lines of Mitch’s limbs, all lithe arms and legs. Mitch hasn’t built too much muscle yet, but Auston can see the beginnings of corded muscle on Mitch’s back. Auston has been calling Mitch a boy, but he really isn’t. Or, he won’t be, in the near future. It’s not like Auston’s would be much older if he converted his age to human years. He’s just as naive as Mitch, just as lost. But maybe they can help each other—just maybe. 

Minutes pass, long enough for Mitch to begin shivering in the cold. Auston doesn’t feel it, but he’s not human. Mitch hasn’t moved from his spot in the riverbank, but Auston knows he must have been bored for a large majority of that time. Bored or… or sad and overthinking. Auston’s lips thin as he takes in Mitch’s dejected face. It’s a stab in the chest. He doesn’t want to be the cause of that face. 

So when Mitch stands up, water droplets running down his ankles, Auston can’t help but reveal himself. He rustles the leaves and pine needles on the branches surrounding him on purpose, and crunches down on the twigs underneath his feet. As soon as the sounds reach the riverbank, Mitch turns his head, resembling a deer. His eyes are wide with something that almost looks like fear, but there’s hope too. Auston is too stunned to move farther. 

But then, he catches the suspicious red mark marring the entirety of Mitch’s cheek, and he can’t help but think the worst. Mitch didn’t seem like he had the best relationship with his father and why else would there be a  _hand print_ on his face? 

“What the fuck happened to your face?” Auston growls. He can feel his eyes changing colours as the glamour slips away from his skin. This isn’t something he wanted to show any human, but he can’t help it. He feels too angry, too destructive at the idea of someone,  _ anyone, _ hurting Mitch. It doesn’t help that it’s his own family. 

Mitch’s eyes widen more as he bites on his cheeks, no doubt reacting to Auston’s seemingly changing form. He reaches a hand up to his right cheek, slightly touching it, and winces. “I think you know what happened.”

“Mitch, goddammit,” Auston sighs, fully emerging from the edge of the forest. He feels the thrum of power running through his limbs and hopes he can contain it. “You can’t just run away every single time you fight with your dad.”   
  


Mitch pouts, as if there wasn’t an all-powerful deity standing in front of him ready to kill something. “I didn’t want to fight! I don’t even like fighting.”

“You need to stand up to your dad.”

Mitch goes still at that. “It’s not that easy. Why else would this happen?” He gestures to his face. 

Auston lets his words settle a little. “What happened, then? Why’d he hit you?”

Mitch flinches a little. He plays with his shirt, wringing it in his hands. “Hockey stuff. Why else?”

“I thought you weren’t doing rep,” Auston says. He says it like a fact, because it is one.

“I’m not, I’m not,” Mitch reassures, “but he’s still mad about that. I guess he’s just  _ more _ mad ‘cause school’s starting soon.”

“So what?”

Mitch shrugs.

“School starts, he can’t get what he wants, so he hits you?” Auston says incredulously. 

Mitch scoffs, “It’s not that simple. But, yeah, I guess so.”

“Humans,” Auston dismisses. 

“Hey! I’m a human too! We can’t all be gods or deities like you.”

Auston smirks. “If we were all deities, there wouldn’t be anyone like you.”

Mitch squints and stares up at Auston. “What does  _ that _ mean? You insulting me?”

“No,” Auston smiles, “it’s a good thing.” 

It’s a good thing, because Auston wouldn’t have been able to experience this unknown emotion otherwise. Auston doesn’t want to let Mitch go, doesn’t want to see him hurt. If Auston has to protect him, he will. If Auston has to do unthinkable things,  _ forbidden _ things, then he will.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you liked this fic please leave a kudos. and if you really liked it, leave a comment down below! tell all your friends, and come yell with me on tumblr [@mitcheemarns](https://mitcheemarns.tumblr.com) :))


End file.
